Rough Around the Edges
by Dracoromae
Summary: The adventure is over; the world is saved. All that's left to do is rebuild. And party, of course! Warfang is celebrating not being destroyed and Spyro is the main attraction. There's only one problem: he might have the tiniest bit of stage fright.


He sat alone on the hill overlooking the city. Lamps flickered brightly throughout the streets, giving extra energy to the already lively music and partygoers crammed into every nook and cranny of central Warfang. He couldn't help the small smile that worked its way onto his muzzle; these dragons certainly knew how to let loose.

His smile quickly faded as he remembered the reason for the distance between him and the unrestrained mob. It had barely been a week since he and Cynder had returned to the Dragon City; two since he'd stopped Armageddon. The repairs and celebrations had already been in full swing by the time the exhausted pair arrived, and they were immediately swept into the festivities.

For Spyro it was all quite overwhelming; the war had allowed no more than a few hours at most for respite. His life at the swamp before that had not been anything like this raucous festival either, so he was completely out of his league amongst the dancing Warfangian patrons. It didn't help that they all looked at him like he was some sort of god. He didn't see himself as that special; he was just Spyro. Granted, he had saved the world, but that was no more than what any dragon would have done, right?

They wouldn't hear it, though. Every night since he had returned they had demanded an appearance from him. Sometimes they wanted a speech, sometimes they wanted a display of power, sometimes guests even asked for more… intimate favors. Luckily, he had been able to talk his way out of the inappropriate requests so far. Subconsciously he ran again through his prepared excuses, just in case some wandering fan happened to stumble upon this particular, secluded hideaway.

Tonight's event, he had discovered only a short time ago, was an organized dance of some sort, and he, of course, was the main attraction. According to the Guardians, this was supposed to be a "reprieve" from the other demands of the citizens; and Cyril had added something about it being more noble and civilized than the "barbaric displays of martial practices" he had been feeding them thus far. While Spyro was thankful for their thoughtfulness, he noticed now that they had overlooked a not-so-minor detail: the purple dragon had never learned how to dance.

He had seen it done on multiple occasions since his return, but it was still entirely different than actually doing it himself. While he was not exactly comfortable with the "hero" image imposed upon him, he felt that it was his responsibility now to live up to it and fulfill the accompanying expectations. What kind of disappointment would he be if he couldn't dance at a party? So he had left his repair work on the city early in order to try and practice a few moves before the sun set and the event started.

It went awfully; he had no idea what he was doing.

Four hours had passed, in which he had tried to imitate movements and gestures he had seen various dragons and dragonesses perform during the past week. He found, however, that they were not so easily duplicated. His hide was dusted with dirt and even a few small bruises from his multiple failures. Not so much earlier, he had come dangerously close to tumbling down his steep hill to the ground below. After his heart settled a bit, he decided to sit down a moment and take a break. That moment stretched into several minutes until he lost his drive to continue practicing altogether. So he sat and watched the city.

He picked at the grass in front of him nervously, tearing clumps of it up with his claws. The sun had set nearly an hour ago; the Guardians were likely searching for him now so the dance could start. As much as he hated disappointing his mentors, he just couldn't bring himself to face all those expectant faces. He wasn't ready; he wasn't ready to perform. He couldn't. He'd let them all down.

A rustle in the brush behind him made him jump.

He whipped around to see a sleek, jet black form weave out of the branches. Instantly he recognized the sharp emerald eyes and relaxed. "Cynder, you startled me."

She smirked. "I gathered, from the way you leapt a full wingspan into the air."

Spyro attempted a good-natured snort in response, but even he could tell it sounded forced. Cynder seemed to realize that something was up; she padded the rest of the way up the hill and warmly nudged his flank with her muzzle as she passed.

"Fantastic view you got here," she said as she sat at the cusp of the earthy rise. "You can hardly tell where the city lights stop and the stars begin."

The purple dragon mumbled in agreement as he took a seat beside her. She was right; he hadn't noticed before, but the view was amazing. The yellow torchlights of Warfang slowly blended into the mix of white, red, orange, and blue dots of the night sky. Constellations began appearing in his mind's eye; some of them established, others a product of his own imagination. He let his gaze drift until it rested on the twin moons, slowly twirling in their everlasting cosmic embrace. He let his body lean against Cynder's warm flank.

"You know the Guardians sent me out here to find you."

"I know."

She didn't push any further. "So why are you out here?"

"I just… wanted to get away from it all for a bit." It was partially true.

She hummed in understanding. Spyro felt it echo through her chest and into his own. It was a comforting feeling. He closed his eyes and let her presence surround him, suddenly grateful that she had found him here.

The Guardians must have been very insistent; only a few minutes later she nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. "C'mon. Time to go and perform for your adoring fans."

Spyro hesitated, his initial fears of the evening rushing back. "But…"

"But what?"

He looked away sheepishly. "I can't dance."

A few moments of awkward silence passed before he turned back to her. She was struggling to hide her quiet snickering behind a raised paw.

He leaned back a little, slightly offended. "What's so funny?" he huffed.

Cynder couldn't hold back an amused snort before giving up on keeping herself under control, dropping her paw from her muzzle. "Is- is that all?" she stuttered between stifled chuckles. "Is that why you're out here by yourself?"

"What do you mean, 'is that a-'"

"Spyro," she interrupted, moving his head to look her straight in the eye, "you fought off armies of apes and golems, defeated the Dark Master himself, and pulled the planet back together on your own, and you're afraid to go _dancing_?"

Spyro's indignant air evaporated immediately as embarrassment set in. His eyes dropped to his paws and he shifted uncomfortably under Cynder's gaze. After several failed attempts, he managed to mumble out a coherent answer.

"Well… yeah."

He looked up again when he heard her chuckling and saw amusement twinkling in her emerald eyes. When he offered a self-conscious smile she gently knocked him over the head with her wing and stood up. "C'mon," she coaxed, nudging him off the ground. "Your public is waiting, hero."

He moved to her side and she wrapped her tail around his reassuringly before they looked once more over the crest of the hill. "I still don't know how to dance, though."

"I'll teach you," she replied easily.

He shot her a surprised glance. "You know how to dance?"

She flashed him a sly grin. "Not a clue."

He couldn't help but return it. "Well, alright then," he conceded playfully, taking up an exaggeratedly proper stance beside her. "I'm ready to learn, _teacher_."

Cynder took up her own stance with enough false pretentiousness to make Cyril proud. "You'd best pay attention, _pupil_," she replied, muzzle high and a gleam in her eye. "There's going to be a test on this later."

He replied with a dutiful "yes ma'am," and they began. Following the rhythm of Warfang's music, the two young dragons stepped, swung, and spun around each other with the least amount of grace ever beheld in a dance. They bashed heads, stepped on paws, and tangled their limbs over and over without the slightest bit of improvement.

And they both were loving every second of it.

Slide to the left, step on Cynder's paw. Spin around, slap Spyro in the snout. Step together, knock foreheads. Step apart, no incident. Step together, trip over Spyro's foreleg. Try to catch Cynder, fall underneath her. Knock heads again. Laugh. Repeat.

Their session came to a quick halt after an attempted spin sent Cynder pirouetting in a fit of laughter towards the grassy lip of their hill. Spyro quickly lunged to catch her, but tripped on his own paws and sent both of them tumbling down the slope to land in a tangled heap. He clumsily lifted his sore head off the ground to find Cynder sprawled sideways across his chest, looking just as dazed as he. She groggily lifted her own head and looked at him with grass and twigs caught in her horns and the silliest dazed expression he had ever seen on her face. He couldn't help himself and burst out laughing.

She took a moment to shake the foliage from her horns before joining in. As the sounds of their mirth mingled with the merry cacophony coming from the city, Spyro decided that making a fool of himself on the dance floor with Cynder didn't seem so bad after all.


End file.
